


if you ever want to be in love (i'll come around)

by timelxrd



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, First Kisses, First Time, Fluff, One Shot, Smut, Thasmin being soft, blame the trailer for this, thasmin, thirteen in a tux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 02:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21539719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timelxrd/pseuds/timelxrd
Summary: She’s breathing soft little huffs of air through her nose when Yaz finds her, capable fingers rendered, apparently, quite the opposite.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/Yasmin Khan
Comments: 42
Kudos: 171





	1. you've got this way about you

She’s breathing soft little huffs of air through her nose when Yaz finds her, capable fingers rendered, apparently, quite the opposite. It’s only when she clears her throat that the Doctor notices her presence, a sad-puppy look gracing her features when she meets her gaze through the floor-length mirror. 

“Need a hand?” Yaz asks, head tilted, lips curved into the warm smile the Doctor can’t resist. 

“I used to do this every day a few bodies back — can’t seem to work out how to anymore. Maybe I deleted it when I had all of Roal Dahl’s books committed to memory,” the Doctor rambles, offering up a cheeky grin when Yaz simply brushes her hands aside to weave the material into a bow herself. 

“You’re going to tell me _James and the Giant Peach_ is a true story, now, aren’t you?” Yaz teases, all too aware of the way the Doctor’s jaw twitches and her breath catches when she brushes the backs of her fingertips against her neck in her mission. 

When she meets her gaze, the Doctor trains her features back into her usual smug smirk, as though she knows all the secrets the universe has to offer. Yaz thinks she probably does. “Where do you think he got the inspiration from?” 

“Oh, shut up,” Yaz laughs, straightening out the perfectly formed bow and patting down her collar. “Looking pretty dapper, though, I’ve got to admit.”

“You did it already? That was lightning speed, Yaz. Ten points to you,” the Doctor enthuses, turning on the spot to admire the browny-gold fabric interwoven into the perfect bow in the mirror. Of course, it’s perfect — Yaz did it. Yet she still has the audacity to blush under her compliment. “Thanks, Yaz. Bow ties are cool.”

“You think soil is cool,” Yaz peers over her shoulder, taking her in, brown eyes glistening with affection she can’t find it in herself to contain — not when the Time Lord looks like that, and certainly not when she turns around to find herself directly before her. 

Millimetres separate them like borders between known territory and somewhere sinfully unknown but all the more enticing. 

“Soil _is_ cool, Yaz. Potatoes grow in soil and I’ve never heard you lot complain about chips,” she replies, looking so smug and proud of herself that all Yaz wants to do is mould against her and kiss her lips to take some of that confidence back.

She’s so lost amongst her internal conflict that she almost jumps when the Doctor dances her fingertips over the fabric of her blazer, which glistens blue and gold in the lighting of the ship’s wardrobe. “I love this. Looks like the stars. Did the TARDIS find it for you?” 

“Yeah, I think so,” Yaz hums, pursing her lips to prevent the jumble of words flinging against the backs of her teeth from ruining any chance of a moment between them. The Doctor toys at the knot tying her blazer closed and Yaz’s knees almost give way. 

“I reckon you’re her new favourite,” the Doctor chimes, the fondness to her tone leaving Yaz no choice but to lift her gaze and seek emerald green to gauge its authenticity. “Don’t tell the boys.”

This time, it’s Yaz’s turn to blush, heat spreading from the tops of her decorated ears to the junction of her neck and shoulder. “You think?” she asks, emboldened by the way the Doctor’s free hand settles at her waist as if by second-nature. She’d touched her like this a few times before; a gentle pressure on her shoulder here; a palm at her back there, but each time Yaz’s body responds with nothing short of delight. 

“‘Course. If you’re _my_ favourite, you’re automatically hers, too,” the Doctor replies, a little shyly. The meaning behind her words is there, now, though, shining and dancing and whirling in green eyes. 

It’s a confirmation of sorts, an end to their independent guessing games and the potential beginning of something, frankly, pretty scary. 

“Doctor,” Yaz whispers, because even her voice the Doctor has turned to putty. “You mean —”

“I’m _genuinely_ terrified, yeah,” the flushing, unusually quiet alien replies, ducking her head slightly. That’s all it takes for their foreheads to brush and two stammering inhales to fill the space between their lips. “But can I — I really want to —” 

“Please,” Yaz murmurs, pulse racing, hands reaching out, settling in blonde locks and the material of the Doctor’s military-style coat. “Please kiss me.”

“Hey, guys! You ready to go?” Ryan quips from the doorway a row or two away, where thankfully they’re hidden from view. It doesn’t stop them from springing apart as though they’d just been electrocuted, though, palms sweaty, eyes glazed, breaths coming short and sharp. 

“Coming!” the Doctor calls, voice wavering on the last note in a fashion which ignites flames in the pit of Yaz’s stomach. The blonde offers her a _we’ll continue this later_ look when she scoops her sonic from the side and slips it into her pocket, turning for the door. She pauses a step or so away, offering an arm. “Shall we, m’lady?”

When Yaz loops an arm around the Doctor’s and a warm, solid body presses against her side, she positively melts. “Lead the way, ma’am.”

Tea with the queen of Terlania doesn’t _exactly_ go according to plan, but, by this point, it doesn’t come as a surprise to any member of the group. 

Narrowly dodging incarceration, the Doctor sends them into the vortex the minute they’re back inside the safety of her TARDIS, dancing around the console with practised ease. 

Once set adrift amongst the stars, she kicks down on the lever beneath the console and hands out celebratory custard creams with a faux-innocent _Who could’ve guessed the queen wouldn’t enjoy a box of outdated chocolates as a gift?_

“Doctor, _anyone_ could’ve guessed that,” Graham chides, leaning against a crystal pillar and breaking into a yawn at the end of his sentence. “Thanks for the trip, though, that buffet was _delicious.”_

“Of _course_ all you took away from that is the quality of the food,” Ryan murmurs below his breath, coaxing a chortle from the dark-haired woman at his side. 

Their easy banter flows like the adrenaline which eases in a slow stream from their systems until Yaz has herself leant against the Doctor’s side in a gesture not unusual for them. 

Graham and Ryan simply exchange knowing looks before making their excuses and bidding goodnight with fatigue in their eyes and warm, inviting beds in their primary thoughts. 

“So,” the Doctor starts when the men’s footsteps have filtered away into the hums and whirrs of her sentient ship. She turns slightly, just enough to wind an arm around Yaz’s waist and lift her chin with her free hand. “I’m sorry about earlier — any chance we could rewind back a few hours?” 

Yaz leans into her touch with a hum, nerve endings coming alight. She lifts a hand to rest against the back of the Doctor’s neck, the other falling modestly to her waist over her jacket. “What for?” she asks coyly, the remaining adrenaline emboldening her. 

“You know exactly what,” the Doctor croons through a huff of laughter with melts in a warm breeze against Yaz’s lips. 

“Might need you to jog my memory, Doctor,” Yaz whispers, brown eyes sparkling with humour and a touch of something more intense, as though she’s challenging her. 

The Doctor never shies away from a challenge. 

When their lips meet, soft and tentative but imploring, the Doctor sighs like she’s figured out the last piece of a plan; like she’s admiring a piece of art; like she’s absolutely, undoubtedly smitten. 

Yaz responds in kind, fingertips inching below her jacket to bunch into her white shirt when explorative strokes of tongue and lips turn firm and confident. The console is to her back in seconds, but the Doctor isn’t rough with her in the slightest. It’s worth the lever digging into her back when she feels the pressure of the time lord’s body flush against her own, clinging to her as though she’ll vanish the instant she lets go. 

When they pull back, Yaz drops her forehead to the Doctor’s shoulder to regain her regular breathing pattern, wavering, panting breaths falling against the charcoal of the Doctor’s jacket. 

“That was… something,” the Doctor whispers into her hair, nose pressed against her scalp so she can take in her scent. “I always knew kissing you would be brilliant, but that doesn’t even cover it.” 

“If you keep saying things like that, I don’t think I’ll let you leave my room for days,” Yaz purrs, re-composed. When she notices the sudden shift in the Doctor’s demeanour, the faint pink to her cheeks and the storm brewing behind her pupils, she leans up to return her lips to their rightful place. 

A yawn halts her in her mission, and, features softening, the Doctor laughs. “Let’s get you to bed, Yasmin Khan.”

“You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted you to say that,” Yaz remarks with a smirk, but she gives in to the exhaustion niggling away at her senses when the Doctor throws her a playful glare. She takes her hand, interweaving their fingers and letting her lead the way to her room aboard the ship. 

“Stay with me?” Yaz hums sometime later, freshly changed into a pair of plaid pyjama shorts and an oversized Coldplay t-shirt. It’s the Doctor’s, from a concert years prior. The smell of earl grey and honey clings to the material and washes over her in a wave of comforting warmth. 

“I don’t need as much sleep as humans, but —” The Doctor threads her fingers through her hair, coat already strewn over a chair in the corner. She’d used it to hide behind when Yaz was changing. “I suppose I haven’t had a proper night’s rest in a while. You sure you don’t mind?”

“I’m the one offering, Doctor,” Yaz answers gently, peeling the sheets back to slip between them. It’s only then that she notices the ache to her muscles and the tiredness in her bones. It feels like the middle of the night, but then again, there’s no sense of time aboard a time machine. 

“Alright then, ‘cos it’s you,” she hums, shrugging her blazer off and untying the material hugging her collar. 

Yaz averts her gaze and rolls onto her side, facing away from the Doctor while she changes until there’s a dip in the bed at her side. She turns, taking in the white shirt customised to her figure unbuttoned at the top but otherwise still in place.

“I’ve got to ask,” the Doctor starts, tone more serious than Yaz had prepared for — although she’s a little busy trying to peel her eyes away from the slither of skin and the outline of bare chest through her shirt. _She’s just a simple gay. Show some mercy for her, Doctor._ “How do you feel about cuddling?”

“Very passionately,” Yaz sighs right off the bat when an arm slinks around her waist and a _very_ bare leg winds around her own. “‘If it’s with you.” 

  
  



	2. is this all a dream?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rated m for my sanity has gone 
> 
> enjoy??

The sheets are rumpled around their forms, royal blue fabric a sea they’re hidden beneath. Yaz wakes to a strong arm curled over her waist and soft, shallow breaths melting against the back of her neck. 

She’d never taken the Doctor to be the big spoon, but sinking in against her, Yaz doesn’t think she’s ever felt so content to be held in arms which offer such security and comfort. She closes her eyes, losing herself to the sensations she’s yearned for since their very first meeting. 

When the Doctor stirs, her fingers twitch and flex against the plane of Yaz’s stomach and she disguises a sharp intake of breath against her pillow. 

She hadn’t realised her hand had slipped beneath the material of Yaz’s t-shirt until it’s too late. The Doctor jumps back as though she’s been burnt, cheeks pink, fingertips tingling. Yaz misses the contact immediately. “Gods, sorry, Yaz. I should’ve made sure you were okay with that first. I’m sorry.”

But when Yaz reaches back blindly, reacquainting her cool palm with her stomach and breathing a huff of laughter, the blonde melts, tension easing. “It’s more than okay, Doctor.”

Curiously, her fingers draw circles over the lightly defined muscles and the Doctor sighs out a hum against the back of her neck. It’s doing nothing to tame the heat in the pit of her stomach thanks to vivid dreams and the wonderful Yaz-shaped pressure against her through the night. 

Yaz hums, fingers moving to intertwine with the Doctor’s in a silent communication of trust. “I’m not going to break,” 

“I know,” the Doctor replies, voice muffled against the back of her shoulder where she presses her face against the material of her t-shirt. She inches upwards, in time, breathing her in, a cool nose ghosting against the short, ringleted baby hairs at the base of her neck. 

When she grazes short nails over the skin just below Yaz’s navel and earns a twitch of hips where they’re cushioned by her own, the Doctor swallows thickly. Curiously, she repeats the movement, earning a sharp intake of breath and a faint squirm. 

Yaz’s free hand falls to fist in the sheets. “ _ Doctor _ .”

“Mm?” the Doctor hums coyly, lips finally pressing against the dark skin of her neck she’s been longing to feel. Yaz breathes a noise somewhere between a sigh and a moan, so she flicks her tongue out to grant herself a taste. “What do you need?”

“You.” 

“Show me how,” the Doctor rasps, because Yaz’s hips keep shifting and squirming against her own and she doesn’t quite know what to do with herself. She curls her free hand around her hip, guiding her movements, while the other is led ever so slowly upwards by Yaz’s own. She’s pleasantly surprised when her fingers ghost over a dusky nipple, drawing two reverent moans from dry throats. 

She circles the bud before squeezing and pinching, working to figure out what makes Yaz tick in a process of trial and error. When she flicks her thumb over the hardening bud, Yaz mewls, arching into her touch. The skin beneath her fingertips heats up as her senses come alight. 

_ Bingo.  _

The Doctor continues her ministrations with open-mouthed kisses against her neck, teeth grazing here, tongue swirling there, until Yaz is all but writhing against her. 

The younger woman reaches for her hand again, drawing it down the firmness of her stomach and, trembling, beneath the waistband of her thin pyjama shorts. 

The Doctor pauses before she can reach her final destination, though, swallowing back a moan. She gently nudges at her hips with her free hand. “I need to see you,  _ please _ .”

When Yaz shifts, rolling onto her back, the Doctor sighs at the loss of pressure against her, but then Yaz looks up, eyes cloudy with desire and affection, lips parted, and any complains die on her tongue. 

“Gods, you’re  _ gorgeous,  _ Yaz. Absolutely wonderful,” the Doctor whispers, thoughts tumbling into overdrive. She cups her cheek, the other hand still bunched just inside her shorts. “I can’t believe I get to do this.”

Yaz blossoms with colour under her gaze like a flower coming into bloom. “The feeling’s mutual.” She shifts, then, swallowing heavily when she parts her thighs, one knee raising. The Doctor follows the movement with dark eyes and a lick of her lips. “Now please touch me before I combust.”

Their lips meet at the same time as the Doctor finally sinks her hand further beneath those pesky shorts, finding wet heat in an instant. She breathes in Yaz’s moan in an equal trade with her own, tongue pushing past welcoming lips to explore her mouth. 

She circles her clit with two fingers, guided by the noises falling from Yaz’s tongue as to how firm and fast her movements should be. “You feel so good,” she slurs when she draws back from their kiss to press swollen lips to her throat and drag downwards, earning a series of breathy whimpers from the writing body half-shielded by her form. “Better than I could’ve dreamt. Better than I  _ have _ dreamt of.”

“ _ Doctor,”  _ Yaz sighs her name like a prayer, clinging to the fabric of her shirt when her words join the stimulation sending pulses to her core. “Please keep talking.”

She has to take a moment to regain her composure when Yaz’s hips begin grinding and surging up against her palm, thighs parting further. “I’ve seen this in my dreams, Yaz. You, beneath me like this — me,  _ inside  _ you.” She’s momentarily grateful she’d opted to just sleep in her shirt and underwear, because she doesn’t remember the last time her skin burned so torrid. 

“Oh my  _ God _ ,” Yaz moans, tipping her head back, her neck now an open canvas for patches of purple and red. “Inside,  _ please. _ I want to feel you.”

The Doctor breathes harshly into her ear while she relocates the pads of her fingers, her thumb grazing her clit while her fingers slip downwards. She pauses before her entrance. “Are you sure?”

“Never been surer,” Yaz gasps, hips tilting in encouragement, brows creased in the centre. She inhales sharply when pressure embraces her core, inviting two fingers through wringing heat with ease. “Now kiss me.”

“Yes, boss,” the Doctor smirks, but it’s clear the sensations are affecting her. Her chest heaves as she moulds against her, slipping a leg through Yaz’s to relieve the persistent ache in her groin. She gives the younger woman a few moments to adjust to the intrusion before she captures her lips again, sucking her bottom lip between her teeth and tugging when Yaz cants her hips up in invitation for her to start moving. 

She’s reduced to a writhing, wrecked state in a matter of minutes due to the Doctor’s persistent rhythm and sweet whispers against her lips. Their kisses turn sloppy and clumsy while Yaz loses all sense of being. She’s seeing stars, jaw slack, eyelids fluttering with every thrust of talented fingers and firm swipe of her thumb over her clit. 

“Have you thought about this before, Yaz?” the Doctor husks, sweeping her t-shirt upwards to mouth at her chest, upping her pace at the same time. Her hips rock against her thigh and Yaz can  _ feel _ her arousal through her underwear; light blue and dusted with rainbows. “Me? Touching you like this?”

“More times —  _ ah  _ — than I can count,” Yaz gasps, threading her fingers through her hair and holding her in place against her chest. “Harder, please.”

The Doctor does as she’s told, meeting her gaze in question, lips still wrapped around an engorged nipple. Her wrist is starting to ache with her efforts, but she’d take anything to see Yaz unravel beneath her. 

“Perfect, you’re so good,” Yaz whispers, hips rolling with the movements until she has to cling onto the Doctor’s shirt just to keep herself grounded to the present. 

She doesn’t miss the Doctor’s breathless moan in response to her words, nor the way her hips kick against her thigh, rhythm faltering for a moment. 

So, swallowing her pride, Yaz tugs gently at the Doctor’s hair to catch her attention, her gaze never faltering. “Good girl.”

A strangled sort of noise melts against Yaz’s chest and the Doctor squirms like a happy kitten, muscles drawing taught against her a second or so later and leaving the Doctor to rut clumsily over her thigh, lips parted, eyes squeezed shut. And then she slumps slightly, pressure returning to Yaz’s clit and walls.

“Did you just —” 

“Might’ve, yeah,” the Doctor’s cheeks flare with heat and embarrassment and she ducks her head to hide them, lips trailing southward. “Now, shush, I’ve got to get a shift on.”

Yaz opens her mouth to do the exact opposite as she’s asked before hot, swollen lips are suddenly pressed against her clit, two fingers pistoning expertly into her core. Her pyjama shorts are halfway down her thighs in the Doctor’s rush, and she’s hurtling towards the edge in seconds. “Oh, my  _ God.  _ Don’t stop, please don’t stop.”

There’s a hum of confirmation against her clit before the Doctor begins to  _ suck _ and Yaz loses herself to the stars in her vision, thighs clamping around her head and cries bouncing from each golden wall. She comes with a shout of the Doctor’s name, clinging to blonde strands while her whole body comes ablaze. 

When she comes back around, blinking hazily, the Doctor is still perched between her legs. 

She licks her to a second orgasm before Yaz has the chance to return the favour, humming against her clit as she works her through it. Her chin and lips are damp when Yaz peels her away, as though she’d been left alone with a bowl of ripe pears and peaches. Shoving her gently onto her back and straddling her thighs, Yaz sinks two fingers into her as though it’s the easiest thing she’s had to do. 

“Didn’t think a simple phrase was enough to make you come, Doctor. Do you mind if I do some experimenting?” 

The Doctor’s cheeks burn and she breathes a whine, rocking into the pressure of her fingers. “It’s not like — I —  _ listen,  _ I was extremely stimulated. It’s not —” 

“Are you going to be a good girl and let me worship you?”

The Doctor muffles a whine against her forearm, which drapes over her face like an ancient renaissance painting. Her thighs close around Yaz’s hand and her counterpart merely smirks. “Yes.”

She makes her come three times before they slump, sated and exhausted into the sweat-ridden sheets, limbs like jelly and lead all at the same time. 

“You’re brilliant, Yasmin Khan,” the Doctor breathes into the minimal space between them, a sheen of sweat gracing her brow and upper lip. 

“And you, Doctor, —” Yaz starts, leaning in, flirting her tongue along the Doctor’s bottom lip and making her gasp. “ — are in dire need of a shower. Mind if I join?” 

“Charming,” the Doctor huffs, giving herself a quick sniff and scrunching her nose in distaste. She springs up as though they hadn’t spent the best part of an hour partaking in  _ vigorous exercise _ , reaching for Yaz. “Better had. Might need a hand.”

The last comment is proclaimed with a charming smirk, and Yaz allows herself to be dragged into the en suite without hesitation. 

The heat of the water is bitterly cold compared to the press of the Doctor’s lips against her throat the second they step under the spray. In minutes, she’s up against cool tiles, thighs curled around the Doctor’s hips while the alien projects her fantasies upon her subconscious mind. She comes with the Doctor’s sodden head between her legs and a scream in her throat. 

The Doctor scampers back into their room, damp and bedraggled with a flurry of laughter ten minutes later, flopping onto the sheets to receive an armful of Yasmin Khan. “Check the top drawer, Doctor.”

She’s never been so grateful for inheriting long, gangly limbs than when she leans across to slide open the drawer and retrieve a small, cylindrical device while maintaining her hold on Yaz. “What’s this?”

Her expression is so puppy-like and curious that Yaz falls in love with her all over again, stealing the toy from her grasp and hovering her thumb over the button at the top. 

She captures her lips instead of answering her question, but the stream of moans she earns when the toy comes to rest against her clit is enough of an explanation. 

“Oh,  _ Yaz,”  _ the Doctor moans, light and breathy, forehead falling to rest against Yaz’s shoulder as she curls into the pressure of the toy. “Wow.”

This time, when she comes, Yaz holds her through it, then again when she forgets to turn the darn thing off.  _ By accident,  _ of course. The second orgasm of many brings with it a whispering of words, a proclamation of love, and Yaz holds her ever tighter. 

Because even the loneliest, most weathered stars deserve love, too. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!!! kudos and comments are always welcome!!!! come shout prompts at me on twitter @sapphichaos if you like!!!


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